


When the Snow Melts, When the Flowers Bloom

by Girl_in_Red_Crossing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feelings Are Confusing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_in_Red_Crossing/pseuds/Girl_in_Red_Crossing
Summary: I said this wasn't a fix-it fic. I think we all knew I was lying.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 883





	1. Limits

Six weeks after the dragon, Geralt tracks Jaskier to a tavern a day’s ride from Oxenfurt. It’s not hard; the bard leaves a trail of townsfolk humming melodies and singing snippets of lyrics in his wake. The bits he collects seem to belong to a new song that sounds vaguely familiar; Jaskier must have been working on it before they parted last.

When Geralt slips into the tavern, the barkeep and patrons are too enraptured by the bard to notice. Jaskier looks as high-spirited as ever, grinning and winking and coaxing the crowd into singing and clapping along. His eyes catch on Geralt’s gaze for just a moment, but he doesn’t even pause, and the song comes to a rousing conclusion that’s met with raucous applause. Jaskier bows, assures his audience he will resume shortly, and collects a pint of ale that is waiting for him at the bar. As he draws nearer to Geralt’s booth, the crow’s feet Yenn mentioned are easier to see, as are the circles beneath his eyes, but he smiles as he sits.

“Geralt of Rivia!” he exclaims, as if it has been years since they had last seen each other instead of weeks. “To what does this humble tavern owe your illustrious patronage?”

The cheer rings false in Geralt’s ears, and the smile looks forced on Jaskier’s lips. The worm of guilt that led Geralt to follow the bard squirms in his gut.

“Jaskier,” he says, and his tone chases the jovial lie from Jaskier’s expression. “I want to apologize for what I said to you on that mountain. It was unjust.” He nods just slightly with the last word, satisfied that he has managed the apology he prepared as he followed the bard’s path.

Jaskier’s eyes soften, just a bit. “Thank you, Geralt. I appreciate that.”

Geralt nods again. “There’s a bruxa harassing a village to the south of here. We’ll leave at dawn.”

He moves to stand up, ready to seek his bed, but he’s halted by the soft noise Jaskier makes, a huff of breath too short and sharp to be called a laugh. Geralt lowers himself back to his seat, and the noise and the twist to Jaskier’s lips have him feeling wrong-footed.

“I said I appreciated your apology,” Jaskier says, meeting Geralt’s eyes with a steady gaze. “I didn’t say I forgive you.”

To that, Geralt has no reply, and he can only swallow the strange, sudden tightness in his throat.

“I know this is hard for you to understand,” Jaskier continues, “because you’re…” His gesture seems to encompass the entirety of Geralt’s existence. “But humans have limits. _I_ have limits. Traveling with you has pushed me past what I thought I could endure so many times.”

Jaskier lets out a long breath, but a slight smile untwists his rueful expression. “And I’m grateful. I am. It’s been a life full of living, and that’s all I ever wanted.”

The look in his blue eyes, an undeserved kindness that is almost but not quite pity, turns the squirming in Geralt’s gut to something gnawing, cold, and empty. 

“But I’m not a young man anymore,” the bard murmurs, dropping his gaze to the tankard between his hands. “I won’t live forever, and I can’t shrug off every blow like I used to. Gods willing I have many years left to live and many songs yet to sing, but there’s not so many that I can afford to waste them.” He glances up at Geralt, and a corner of his mouth quirks in a self-deprecating smirk. “The smell of heroics and heartbreak has lost a bit of its allure, I’m afraid.”

He waits for Geralt to answer, and Geralt knows he should speak, knows he is staring at the bard, but his mind has heard only that when he leaves, Jaskier will not follow. The thought is… wrong, wrong in a way he can feel in his whole body. It flows unnaturally through his veins, pumped sluggishly by his mutant heart, and he sits, silent and paralyzed, unable to move beneath the weight of it.

Jaskier sighs and stands. He collects his tankard and raps his knuckles on the table between them. He doesn’t meet Geralt’s gaze as he offers, “Maybe next time, yeah?” And then he walks away, back to the crowd that cheers when he loops his lute back over his chest. He begins an upbeat tune, quick and lively, as full of energy and feeling as the man who sings it.

Geralt forces himself to stand, to cross the tavern, to push out into the night. The cold air acts like one of his potions, stinging on the way down, drowning out his senses, and pushing any pain deep enough that he can keep moving, keep functioning. The sensation is so similar that as he walks to where he left Roach, he absently presses a hand to his chest and half expects it to come away bloody.

But there is no wound to bandage, no enemy to fight. The night is empty of any monster besides himself, and the knife that made this cut was held by his own hand.


	2. Agreement

The tavern keeper had kindly let Jaskier a room for a fortnight in exchange for keeping his barroom full. It had been a generous offer, and Jaskier had accepted gladly. He was due in Oxenfurt for the start of winter term, but he relished making music that could simply _be_ before he spent months breaking it down into meter and tempo and rhyme. Though there was joy in that as well, joy in guiding young musicians through the intricacies of their shared love. He'd actually committed to a full term's teaching this time, eager to soak up the enthusiasm of the students and their appreciation for his talents. Appreciation had been lacking in his life of late.

After ten days, the little room felt comfortable and lived in; he could strew his belongings as he wished, no need to stay packed for a sudden departure, no need to make room for anyone else. He'd settled into a routine of writing lyrics and planning lessons by day and singing and playing by night before he retired to his room for a bath, a bottle of wine, and his bed. At other times or for longer stretches, it might have felt a stale existence. Right now, it was a balm.

He'd just blown out his candle when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps up the stairs. The tavern keeper and his wife had retired an hour before, and the grown son whose room Jaskier was inhabiting was not expected for another week. After a moment's hesitation, during which the footsteps reached the second floor, Jaskier crept to his bag and pulled out his silver dagger from its sheath. He clutched it in one hand, angled back against his forearm, prepared to cut and hopefully not stab. A slice across the arm deterred most bandits in his experience. He hadn't killed anyone yet, and he was loath to start.

He took a slow breath as the footsteps creaked on the floorboard outside his door, and then he leapt to grab the handle and sling the door open, crouched to strike. Faint light from the barroom's dying fire glinted off the blade... and the pair of golden eyes that looked to the knife. Geralt let out a low hum of approval, and the sound sent a flame of warmth through Jaskier until he chased it down and doused it with a heavy flagon of irritation.

"Gods, Geralt," he snapped as he straightened, though the bite was half-hearted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

The Witcher only hummed again, eyes locked on Jaskier's. In truth, Jaskier's heart was barely beating faster than normal; two decades of monsters made sneak thieves a less intimidating prospect.

After a moment's silence, Geralt dropped his gaze. Jaskier's surprise only increased when he murmured, "May I come in?"

He'd once had a finely tuned instinct to allow this man whatever he wanted, but Jaskier could feel the peace he'd found in this space, temporary as it was, and he wasn't ready to see it roiled by the Witcher's presence.

"It's late," he replied in an equally soft tone. Perhaps their low voices were out of respect for the tavern keeper and his wife. Perhaps something else in the moment demanded respect.

Golden eyes met his again. "Please," Geralt said, and a shiver started beneath Jaskier's skin at the unfamiliar word. "I'd like to talk."

Jaskier couldn't contain the breathy laugh that escaped his lips. "You. Want to _talk_."

Geralt nodded, and the absurdity of the whole situation had Jaskier stepping back and allowing Geralt entry before he could talk himself out of it.

As Geralt shut the door behind them, Jaskier went to the small table in the corner of the room and relit the candle. He also uncorked the bottle of wine and upended what remained into the glass he'd used previously that evening. "I take it you took care of the bruxa?"

When Geralt's only response was yet another hum, Jaskier laughed again. He dropped onto the edge of his bed and drank a long swallow of wine, shaking his head. "You do realize talking usually requires words, yes?"

Geralt, who had been conducting a slow study of the room and its clutter, turned his intense gaze back to him. "Jaskier," he started.

"Yes?" Jaskier prompted, eyebrows raised, when the Witcher hesitated.

"I..." Geralt drew in a fortifying breath through his nose. "... care about you."

Another shiver raced through Jaskier, trailing goosebumps in its wake. He forced his muscles to still and his lips to turn up. "That looked physically painful." He gestured to the chair beside the table. "Do you need to sit down?"

Geralt growled his name with a frown. "Caring isn't something I'm practiced at," he snarled. "Speaking of it less so."

Jaskier's smile slipped away. "I know. And... thank you." He rose to his feet and placed the wineglass on the table, which gave him a moment to take his own deep breath and find a genuine smile before he turned back. "I care about you too."

Geralt shuffled toward him half a step, as if he couldn't quite help it, before stopping. "So come with me."

The words cut straight through Jaskier sharper than any claw or fang. How his heart would have _ached_ to hear those words from Geralt at 18, at 20, even at 30. Those younger men lived within him still, and each howled his answer.

They hadn't felt the blows that had been dealt to the man he was now.

"I'm committed to Oxenfurt for the winter," he said.

Geralt scowled. "Tell them you rescind."

Jaskier dug his nails into his skin as he placed his hands on his hips. "Because my commitments matter less than your whims?"

"Dammit, Jaskier!" Geralt barked. "It's not a whim!"

"You say that now," Jaskier spat back. "What about tomorrow? Next week? Next year? How long before you tire of me again? How long until the next time the witch slaps you down and you pass the blow to me?"

"Yennefer doesn't matter right now!" Geralt yelled.

"Why not?" Jaskier demanded.

"Because _you're_ here!" With two strides, Geralt filled his space; strong hands clutched his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "You're here!" he repeated and shook Jaskier harshly. "You're here now, but someday you won't be! You said you don't want to waste the time you have left! Well, neither do I!"

The heart that had stayed calm at the sound of an intruder pounded in Jaskier's chest. They both panted heavily, breathing in each other's breath. Jaskier swallowed around his suddenly dry throat and licked his lips. When Geralt's gaze dropped to his mouth, he nearly came apart.

Instead he shoved, pushing Geralt away and twisting out of the Witcher's grasp. "Fuck!" he shouted, and he buried his hands in his hair. He turned back to Geralt, feeling like he could burn from the inside out. "I should hate you," he declared. "I should hate you for the way you've treated me over the years."

His traitorous heart stuttered in his chest at the faint flinch in Geralt's brow. He lowered his hands to cover his mouth and forced himself to breathe again before he dropped his arms to his sides.

"I'm going to Oxenfurt," he said. When Geralt made to storm from the room, he dodged to the side to block his way. "Oh-ho-ho no. No," he said with his palm flat against Geralt's heaving chest. "You said your piece on that mountaintop, and now you're going to hear mine."

Geralt glared, nostrils flaring, breath hot on Jaskier's face, a cornered animal. Jaskier didn't blink.

"I've given you the best years of my life," he insisted. "Why should I give you any more?"

Heavy silence blanketed the room. Jaskier's breath stopped up tight like a djinn in a bottle, and he could feel the faint tremble that had taken hold of his body. As Geralt leaned forward--so, so slowly, so agonizingly slowly--he knew he was just as cornered, just as trapped.

Geralt's forehead rested against his; their noses brushed. When he spoke, Jaskier felt the words against his lips. "Because I've finally worked out what pleases me."

"Fuck," Jaskier whimpered, and Geralt hummed his agreement before closing the last whisper of breath between them. The touch of their lips was soft, almost chaste, but in it was the promise of so much more. Jaskier raised his hands to cup Geralt's jaw, partly to cling to something solid and partly to ease him gently away.

"Spring," he managed.

"What?" Geralt barely breathed the word before pressing forward again.

Jaskier held him back with a touch that should have been too tender, too delicate, to hold such a powerful man, but Geralt responded to the slight pressure. "Ask me again in the spring," Jaskier murmured.

The spell that had held them seemed to break. Geralt blinked at him; the bare breeze outside the window sounded like a gale.

" _Jaskier._ " The word sounded like a plea.

"Gods," Jasier breathed, and he couldn't help but tighten his hold on Geralt, his thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth as golden eyes stared back at him with something desperate and hopeless in their depths. "I'm not-" He had to stop and swallow the lump that had formed in his throat and breathe past the sting in his eyes. "I swear to you, I'm not trying to be cruel. But I need this. I need this time. I need to know you'll still want me when the snow melts."

When he glanced down at Geralt's lips, he could almost see the words of protest forming, but then Geralt lifted his hands to cover Jaskier's on his face... and he gently pulled them away so he could step back.

"Spring," he said, and his voice was softer than Jaskier would have believed him capable of.

Jaskier nodded, blinking back his tears, pulling back his heart. He cleared his throat. "Where will you go?" he asked. His voice sounded almost normal if he ignored the quaver on the last word.

Geralt had turned to gaze out at the night beyond the windowpane. "Cintra."

Surprise pricked the bubbles of stronger emotions still roiling within him. "Cintra? Really?"

Geralt nodded, and when he looked back at Jaskier, his expression was as closed and stiff as ever. It was almost a relief. Almost. "Nilfgaard threatens. I want to check on the princess."

With legs that felt like he'd been at sea a month, Jaskier walked to the table and reclaimed his wine. After a long swallow, he shook his head. "I honestly never thought I'd live to see the day you went back there."

Geralt's gaze was like a brand on his skin. "It... matters. It's time I did the things that matter."

Jaskier paused with the rim of the glass pressed against his lips. "And I matter?" When Geralt nodded, he took a sip, then let his lips curl into a hint of a smirk. "Does that mean you're going to do me?"

When Geralt growled his name again, the warning in it sent a shudder down his spine. He couldn't help but draw closer and lay his hand against Geralt's cheek once again. When the Witcher leaned into his touch like a cat, his breath fucked right off.

"Be careful," he whispered.

Geralt hummed his agreement. "And you."

Jaskier huffed a breath of a laugh. "The only danger I'm likely to face is in getting fat."

"You'll work it off come spring."

Jaskier raised a saucy eyebrow. "Will I?"

Geralt leaned against his brow once more. "I'm still not letting you ride Roach."

"You're a nightmare honestly."

A sharp scrape of teeth against his jaw had him struggling to breathe again. Then Geralt was pulling away, striding to the door. He paused on the threshold, and Jaskier barely resisted the urge to call him back. But he wasn't quite ready to toss his heart to the Witcher just yet. Not in full. Not until he was sure Geralt wouldn't fumble it when he did.

"When the snow melts," Geralt said. It sounded like a promise.

Jaskier raised his glass in salute. "When the flowers bloom," he replied. Then he smiled. "And yes, that is going in a song."

Geralt hummed, but as he turned to leave, Jaskier could see the corner of his lips turn up in fondness. Then the door was closed, and Geralt's footsteps retreated. He heard the door to the tavern open and then close and only then stopped to realize that they'd probably woken the tavern keeper and his wife with their shouting. He'd make his apologies in the morning.

As for the remaining night... 

He finished his wine, chasing the last drops across his lips with his tongue. He could still taste Geralt.

"Fuck," he breathed to the empty room. Then he snuffed the candle, shuffled to the bed, and burrowed in among the blankets, already composing the first lines of his ballad for the coming spring.


	3. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with more pain! And Yennefer and Ciri!

Geralt doesn’t remember much between Yennefer bringing him word of Nilfgaard’s capture of Jaskier and holding the bard’s face in his hands. Portals, blood, screaming. An iron lock that gave beneath the battering of his bootheel. And then he is kneeling on a stone floor, assessing the way Jaskier’s eye swells shut, the way his hand curls around bruised ribs, the smell of blood, old and new, crusting on his back. Another moment passes before he registers the feel of soothing fingers carding through his hair and hears a low voice somehow offering _him_ words of comfort.

_I’m all right. I’m all right. Shhh. I’m all right._

A wounded sound rolls through Geralt’s chest and tears from his throat. Soft lips press against his temple, and he closes his eyes to breathe as Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and levers himself to his feet. He can still walk, no damage to his legs. No damage to his _hands_. His _voice_. He trades halfhearted barbs with Yennefer, and she aims a sharp kick at Geralt’s hip before he can gather himself enough to stand and take hold of Yaskier’s arm. Yennefer takes the other and then gestures with one hand to return them to Kaer Morhen and safety.

They have barely stepped through when Ciri is launching herself at the bard. A cry echoes through the courtyard as her flung arms catch the wounds across Jaskier’s waist. She jumps back, startled, eyes round and wide, poised to flee, but then Jaskier is on his knees in the snow before her, cupping her face as Geralt had done to him.

_It’s all right. It’s okay. I’m so glad you’re safe. I was so worried for you._

And he brushes away Ciri’s tears with his thumbs.

Yennefer retakes her hold of Jaskier’s bicep, pulls him back to his feet, and bullies him toward the small infirmary off the training ground.

“Ciri,” she commands over her shoulder. “Fetch my bag.”

The girl is off like a shot, and Geralt stumbles after the others like he’s the one wounded. Inside the cramped chamber, barely more than a fireplace, a cot, a shelf of jarred herbs, and a narrow washing tub, Yennefer shoots him a cutting look that demands he stop being so useless.

“Strip,” she orders Jaskier, and Geralt moves to the hearth to light the fire with Igni. The moment he’s finished, she shoves him away and hauls a cauldron of water to the heat.

“Pretend I had a glib response to that,” Jaskier sighs, weary. “I’m going to think of one later and hate myself for not using it.”

“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Yennefer jabs absently as she pulls down jars and crumbles herbs into the water.

Jaskier huffs, almost a laugh, and then fumbles with the laces of the threadbare breeches that are all that remains of the outfit he was taken in. He slips them over his hips and then gasps in pain as he tries to bend to push them lower. The sounds jolts Geralt into action, and he helps Jaskier kick the fabric away and step into the tub. As he crouches down, the firelight catches on the deep gashes that stripe his back. Geralt kneels before him; he wraps one hand around the nape of Jaskier’s neck, well above the first of the marks, and pulls him to rest against Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier’s hands fist in his shirt, and the bard’s boldness drains away as he heaves trembling breaths against Geralt’s throat.

They both jerk when the door slams open, letting a gust of cold air and a red-cheeked, panting Ciri. Jaskier curls himself tighter and Geralt shifts to shield him; Yennefer laughs at their shuffling as she gestures Ciri to her side.

“The girl was in the refugee camps,” she says. “You think she hasn’t seen a naked man?” But once she has her bag, she shoos Ciri away and the girl reluctantly goes.

Then Yennefer dips a bucket into the cauldron and collects the boiling, fragrant water. Her gaze warns Geralt, and though he grits his teeth, he nods slightly and tightens his hold on Jaskier.

As the water pours over Jaskier’s back, washing blood and filth away, he screams, writhing and thrashing but unable to escape Geralt’s grasp. Yennefer’s hand on the bucket is steady and thorough, and all the wounds are clean once it is empty.

“Fucking,” Jaskier gasps, choking for air, “demon _witch_.”

“Slow and gentle would have taken all night,” Yennefer retorts, but her glowing hands are already reaching for him. Her fingertips barely graze Jaskier’s pebbled skin before he sags in relief. “Would you have preferred hours of pain to a quick release?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer--Geralt’s not certain he can answer--so he answers instead. “Thank you, Yenn,” he murmurs, the words hoarse, as if he hasn’t spoken in hours.

Yennefer only sighs at him, then digs out a vial of blue liquid from her bag. “To help him sleep,” she explains. “Half now. Wake him in a few hours for food and water. Then the other half.”

He nods and accepts the vial with one hand, the other still holding Jaskier against him. On her way out, Yennefer tosses him a clean towel, and then he’s left alone with his wounded bard.

He doesn’t speak as he gently dries Jaskier’s trembling body. The wounds have all closed, so he doesn’t hesitate to reach into the tub and gather Jaskier into his arms and against his chest. When he stands, Jaskier clings to him with a soft whimper, but he goes willingly and allows Geralt to lay him on the cot and cover him in a pile of furs.

Geralt does hesitate before joining him, but the way Jaskier curls himself into his side reassures him. He props them up against the wall a bit and holds the vial to Jaskier’s lips; he doesn’t even have to speak before Jaskier sips and swallows, trusting as a child. 

“Sleep,” he murmurs as he pockets the vial. He resettles Jaskier against his shoulder, an arm around his waist. Closing his eyes, he buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair and calms himself with the feel of the man warm and lax beside him.


	4. Garden

A crackling fire warmed the bed, with soft linens and a feather mattress, and Jaskier stretched fully, luxuriously, before opening his eyes to unfamiliar rafters. The last wisps of drowsy haze evaporated in the bright winter sunlight from a high window, and he sat up, blankets pooling at his waist. His breath caught in his lungs upon the first moment remembering the pain, the blood, the scalding water poured across his back. But he rolled his shoulders to feel the stretch of untorn skin and forced his fists to release the bedding.

He’d been saved. Or he was dead. Either way the bed was nice.

The door opened, and Geralt entered, hair loose but clean and combed, without armor, just half-laced shirt and trousers (black, of course). He closed the door behind him with one hand and held a covered tray in the other. He set it on the bed beside Jaskier’s knee and then sat on the edge, one warm hand finding Jaskier’s calf beneath the blankets.

Jaskier’s mouth watered before he even pulled back the cloth, and he let out a little moan of pleasure at the sight of fresh bread and cheese and...

“Are those blueberries?” he asked. “In the dead of winter?” He cocked his head at Geralt. “Oh, gods. _Am_ I dead?”

Strong fingers squeezed his leg, and Geralt’s lips twitched in an expression that Jaskier would have mistaken for indigestion in other man but knew for indulgence from the Witcher.

“Yennefer has an enchanted garden.”

“Of course she does,” Jaskier said around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and gestured to the comfortable chamber around them. “Has she seduced another lord out of his castle?”

“This is Kaer Morhen,” Geralt replied.

“The Witcher stronghold?”

Geralt nodded. “It seemed the safest place for Ciri.”

Jaskier plucked up the cheese and devoured bit after bit. “I wish you could have told me she was safe with you.” When Geralt frowned and began to speak, Jaskier raised his hand. “I know you couldn’t.”

Letters and messages of any kind were risky with Nilgaardian agents in every port, and a missive about the whereabouts of the Cintran princess (the very information Jaskier had been taken for) would have been the end of all of them.

Still. The lack of communication hadn’t helped him convince himself of the reality of their one and only kiss.

“You know her,” Geralt said instead.

Jaskier eyed the blueberries warily, but after several days without food, his stomach would brook no refusal. The first popped sweet across his tongue, far sweeter than he’d imagined anything associated with the sorceress could be.

“I played in Cintra often over the years.”

Geralt’s gaze went soft around the edges. “You were watching over her.”

Jaskier laughed. “You make it sound noble. I promise that at first it was no more than curiosity about the child surprise you’d claimed. But well... she grew up sweet and asked for my music, and who could refuse that?”

“Certainly not you.”

“My fans are my everything,” Jaskier agreed. One blueberry remained. Jaskier held it up to the light before dropping it back in the bowl. “So... Yennefer’s here,” he noted.

“Ciri has Pavetta’s magic. She needs training.”

Moving the tray from the bed to the table next to it gave Jaskier’s eyes and hands something to do besides reach for the man next to him. “And are you two...?”

The grip on his leg tightened again, just shy of painful. “We talked about this already.”

“Right,” Jaskier murmured, looking down at the blanket. He idly plucked at a loose thread. “You said she doesn’t matter right now. Makes sense, I suppose. You two can have decades together once I’m in the ground.”

He was a master of Geralt’s silences. This one lingered, like held breath, like the iron bars of a cell even after the door is opened. Then Geralt pushed to his feet, his back to the bed, his eyes on the winter world beyond the window. Only someone who’d seen him hide hurt for years would see it now.

“If you want to return to Oxenfurt, Yennefer will take you.”

He could. Two weeks remained in term, though he’d already missed... three days? Four? He didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d been taken. They’d spent two months apart while Geralt found his child surprise and Jaskier lectured and corrected flat notes and crooked fingerings and tried his best to believe that Geralt’s offer had been sincere. Decades of unrequited longing turned hope into a cynic that was slow to trust again.

“It will probably be some time before the snow melts here, won’t it?” Jaskier asked softly.

Geralt hummed, but before he could do more than shift his weight to step away, Jaskier reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Are there flowers blooming in this magic garden?” he asked.

A moment passed before Geralt answered. “Yes.”

“And you still want me?”

The Witcher turned, slowly, with heavy gaze and tight jaw. “Yes.”

With the lightest tug, Jaskier pulled him back to the bed. He sat and let Jaskier frame his face with his fingers and drag his thumb across his lips. 

“Then kiss me for a second time for I say spring has come,” the bard whispered.

Geralt obeyed, and they wrapped themselves in the thaw’s first dreams, where flowers never fade.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading! (Also, I am a bit shy about replying to comments, but I treasure each and every one.)


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